To Breed Contempt
by PatronSaintOfBEGA
Summary: Familiarity does what? Hiro only knows one way of working, really. This came out of left field, review and I love you!


**To Breed Contempt**

_"Yes, but without a certain degree of familiarity, we could not breed anything at all."_

_- Winston Churchill_

Usually, he liked to get to know them, for various reasons. He wasn't entirely sure about _these_ ones, not _this_ time, but then. Well, things had overtaken him, was all. He supposed he didn't really know any other way to work.

She was the first one he actually _met_, as opposed to just _seen_. She - the only female in the group, a sweetish, flattered young girl constantly in want of admiration. She could never get enough, apparently. But that was peripheral; he hung around backstage at her show a few times, talked when she was feeling - different. And got to know. Ming Ming. He knew she'd been educated in America; her parents owned a stage school somewhere near Tokyo; she was fond of Michelmas daisies. Counselling once a week for a split personality. She laughed about that and always went for a manicure afterwards, which apparently painted on a fantastic Revlon layer of normal girl; so far as her concerns went, anyway - which was pretty much to the ends of her fingernails, sometimes. She liked expensive hand lotion, and cheap tomato salsa on celery sticks. Her hairstyle changed frequently, but that and the dresses, the _genki_, the perma-tan and shrill laughter didn't quite dissolve a hint of genuine, lasting sweetness between her mascara-laden lashes. He seemed to remember her eyes as being brown? That was more difficult to recall than hard facts, like her favourite perfume; Dior's _Pure Poison_. Yves Saint Laurent's _Baby Doll_ would do at a pinch, she told him, winked coquettishly, and left in time to make her cue on stage.

The next was a lot quieter, fortunately for his somewhat overworked ears; the first of four teenaged males, and the second to eldest. This one he encountered naturally enough; they met in the gym after hours, and got talking. He agreed to spot for weights. And he got to know. Moses. Moses, who had picked up the nickname of "Crusher" somewhere along the line and didn't mind it; Moses who missed his little sister more than anything - apparently she was in the hospital. Over the course of weights and treadmills and rowing machines he found out that Moses originated from a bad neighbourhood in an overcrowded city, parents gone who knew where from an early age. He had been brought up by an aunt, and wanted to get out of poverty and if this was the only way - and it _was_, as far as Moses could see - then he didn't really care what it was about. He liked watching _Futurama_ at the weekends; the origin of his facial tattoo was "a long story, heh"; he confessed himself terrible at picking clothes. He tried to look fierce and for the most part succeeded. When talking about Monica, though, his lips curved and compassion glinted from under thick eyebrows. He didn't entirely trust the Government. He smelled of unfragranced soap, and slightly of fresh, unstagnated sweat. He thanked _him_, put the weights away, and went off to the showers, moving with heavy cautiousness, like a bear indoors.

The third was easy. Very easy to know. One greeting provided him with a waterfall of talk in exchange, and he was well-equipped to sit by the outdoor jungle gym and listen. And he got to know. Mystel. This one was the youngest, and showed it; only just fifteen, and full of exeuberance. Technically speaking, he was half-Egyptian, and had spent his early childhood in Thebes, before travelling around the world with two adventurous parents. No siblings, but he thought it would be fun to have some. He thought his team captain was "like _everyone's _boring big brother anyway!". Mystel liked sunshine. He _looked_ quite a lot like sunshine as well; he wore his mess of platinum blonde hair spiked at the front, pulled into a plait at the back; and had a great predisposition towards gold jewellery. Apparently, he _was_ capable of sitting still for five minutes, but preferred to move. He freely admitted to singing and dancing in the shower - he was very fond of old Elvis tracks, though nothing was superior in Mystel's mind to _Everlasting Love_. He admitted this a lot less frequently, bright, clear eyes endeavouring to communicate _don't tell anyone_, sideways. He smelled like citrus, and some vague kind of spice. He liked oranges a lot, and popcorn, and his general knowledge was extremely shaky. _He_ supposed that didn't really matter.

The fourth was team captain, and everyone was aware of that fact. It was difficult not to be. This one spent a lot of time training, and led soundly by example; a willing sparring partner was only too welcome, conversation not difficult. And he got to know. Garland. The family name he'd heard of in other sports, of course; a Wimbledon champion, an F-1 winner, parents now running a sports academy having retired from their own careers. He seemed to feel bound as a dutiful son to follow in the clan's tradition. Neither parent appeared to have passed down much of a sense of humour, however; hair long enough to be rebellious, he pulled back into a tight ponytail; he wore reading glasses to peruse the morning papers, and only laughed at _intellectual_ jokes. This may or may not have been a good idea. Outside of the training rooms, he studied history - any history. He habitually got up at five a.m., and didn't really approve of _any_ of his teammates - though nothing was said. That would be bad sportsmanship, or something like it. He quite enjoyed an occasional glass of beer, and as the eldest of the team, wasn't denied it. Guinness from Ireland was the best kind, he said. He would never admit it, but wasn't ever quite sure what to wear beyond sports gear; he secretly enjoyed South Park, and distrusted health insurance policies. He smelled like sharp, expensive cologne; Hugo Boss, apparently. _That_ was only for after training though, he said, and walked back to the punching bag; priorities were priorities.

The last one was difficult to find. He had to go out of his way to do so, and after asking around, discovered that nobody else knew either. The park had been a last resort and unexpectedly accurate; he started talking, and found himself unexpectedly pressed to continue. Eventually he persuaded a conversation out of this one. And he got to know. Brooklyn. The last of the team didn't want to play, and was far less talkative about it than the others, although at least twice as polite. He made an admirable job of Teflon-coating his personality, simply by refusing to have an opinion on _anything_. Apart from the fact that he wasn't going to do any work, not now, not ever, _sensei_. But eventually a foothold was found, and conversation started. It felt very much on his terms, acquiescence out of mild curiosity - or hope that the man would go away and stop bothering him if he answered a question once or twice - either way. That appeared to be how he did everything, though. The foothold was coffee; he liked Ecuadorian coffee, though it had to be of the awful freeze-dried kind. He didn't say where he came from and never mentioned family, but was comparatively loquacious on the subject of animal rights. At least, when the subject was broached, his sleepy-eyed teal gaze sharpened fractionally from under the mess of uncombed ginger hair, and a flock of pigeons went disregarded for a whole thirty seconds. He habitually touched the side of his head - palm to temple - when irritated, tired, or thinking; his handwriting was identically terrible with either hand; he didn't appear to have any particular nationality - beyond a somewhat European accent - and confusingly, spoke most languages. Fluently. He liked offbeat movies, making shapes out of clouds and anything to do with nature, and smelled of, well, _clean_. Just clean, perhaps with a faint tinge of incense. Or perhaps not, it was nearly impossible to tell. Whether his vapid smile was simply worn as habit, or whether the joke really _was _on the rest of the world - well, that was impossible, too.

So now, as they all got ready to walk out for the first match, Hiro could honestly say he knew his team. Having taken the time, the effort - in some cases the sheer bloody-mindedness - he knew each of them as an individual. Or at least he was fairly sure. They had personalities now; likes, dislikes, fears, families - three dimensions. He'd artfully tried to give as little back as possible, while gaining trust on the way, and had for the most part succeeded. Familiarity.

He stood up, sighed, and streched; they were waiting, ready to trail out into the stadium, to the mass of audience and whatever else. He went to the door, smiling a little. Familiarity?

That made it all a bit more difficult to do, really.

**Hmm, well, what can feather-duster say about this, then? Maybe what her friend says...that she needs to recognise the existence of other characters than Hiro and BEGA (insert sweatdrop here...). Oh well. This one came out of left field, folks, and feather-duster can't really account for it. She's more worried about trying to decide whether Hiro is more fun as a bit of a bastard, or a genuinely nice guy, right now...**

**Review and I love you, as always!**


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